


Stay

by allthelonelypeople



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthelonelypeople/pseuds/allthelonelypeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaction fic to Cory Monteith's death, written July 14th.</p><p>Basically, the ND reacts to Finn's death. </p><p>RACHEL'S POV</p><p>"I love you so much, Finn," you gasp out.The words feel warm on your tongue and you're waiting for his returning "Love you, too, Rach," but the words never come. -— rachel, without finn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Cory and Lea and all of us gleeks.

It's time to try defying gravity; I think I'll try defying gravity—

You pick up the phone before the verse is finished. "Hello, Kurt," you say into the phone, automatically knowing who it is. Every one of your friends has a specialized ringtone; you are, of course, Rachel Berry and that is a very Rachel Berry thing to do. You've changed since you got to New York but not that much, right?

Kurt doesn't respond, simply taking a shaky breath in. You sigh, impatient. Kurt knows better than to bother you today, after all—it is the day you find out whether or not you got the role of Fanny. "This had better be extremely important," you add, "Like on the level of Barbra's at the apartment and she wants me to play her in a biographical musical about her life."

Kurt still does not respond and you feel anger—but under that, you feel something else because Kurt is unnaturally still (if you couldn't hear the breathing on the other side, you'd assume that he'd hung up). You feel fear, judging by the fine layer of sweat that covers your palm and you nearly drop your new, expensive iPhone. "Kurt?" you say again, softer this time. "What happened?"

And something is very, very wrong. You world spins and you fall into the nearest seat when Kurt mutters, "Rachel—please, come home. Now." And you feel your breakfast bagel and soy latte start to make its way back up your throat because he's only had that tone of voice twice before—once when his dad had his heart attack and once when Burt had been diagnosed with cancer. "Rachel, please."

You don't argue—you know that Kurt wouldn't sound so desperate and scared if he wasn't. "Want me to call Santana, too?" you ask, running a hand through your perfect hair. You feel as if you will be sick now and you run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the remains of your breakfast make their way up your throat. Something can't be wrong with Burt—it can't.

You are crying—whether or not from the vomiting or whatever has Kurt so scared, you don't know—and your throat burns. Blindly, you reach for your phone. You see that Kurt has cut the line, so you dial Santana's number, praying she picks up because you know, just like you know you were destined to be on Broadway, that something is terribly wrong—

"Hello, Dwarf. What do you want?—I thought we weren't supposed to meet for an hour. I'm busy getting my mack on so how 'bout you hang up and let me have some—" You interrupt Santana, which you've rarely done and probably shocks her more than your next words.

"You have to come. There's something wrong. Kurt. I—I don't know; it may be his dad or something." Your voice sounds weak and broken, just as Kurt's sounded a few minutes prior, and you get the feeling that the worst is yet to come. You notice that Santana hasn't hung up and there's the sound of her swearing in Spanish and promising a girl apparently named 'Melissa' that they'll pick things up later before she runs to hail a cab.

She's there in ten minutes and each of those minutes feels like an eternity to you. You want to call someone—Finn, Quinn, Puck—because they may know what's going on but you can't dial up the nerve. You feel like you're going to throw up again when Santana runs out of the cab looking annoyed, relieved, and scared.

Are you okay, her eyes ask when her lips can't because this is Santana Lopez after all.

I don't know, you reply with your eyes. She grabs your hand—whether for your comfort or her own, you don't know; probably both—and leads you to the car where you shakily say the address. You remind yourself to breathe—utilise those acting lessons daddy paid for—but you can't seem to get your breath under control. You toss a handful of bills at the driver and yell, "Keep the change!" because you have to know what got Kurt Hummel has so scared.

You run up the stairs three at a time and thank God dad paid for those gymnastics classes all those years ago. Santana is on your heels swearing and mumbling and as your door nears, you wish it would move further away because you can't bear to hear the news; whatever it is.

You and Santana both end up in front of the door, staring at each other; you both want to go in, but neither of you wants to be the one that knocks and leads the other to the discovery of the bad news. Santana finally breaks the silent staring contest and knocks on the door.

Burt opens the door and you let out a sigh of relief that Santana seems to echo because it's not him, but then another question forces its way to the center of your mind and makes you reel backwards.

If not Burt, then who—? You try to solve this puzzle as Burt calls for Kurt to tell us the bad news. Burt looks like he can't speak. Slow tears are making their way down his face, and he looks like a man that has seen hell. You say nothing, shaking your head as he offers you your own tea.

You fight the urge to vomit again. You want to call Finn, like you did before your callback (yeah, you both know that wasn't a butt dial), so he can whisper words of comfort into your ear but you are frozen to your spot.

There are a handful of people that would make Kurt Hummel lose control and an even smaller handful that would cause Burt Hummel to cry. Your first thought is that something happened to Blaine because Burt did like him—although you're not sure if he knows about Blaine's infidelity—but you'd just talked to Blaine ten minutes before Kurt called; he'd wished you good luck for the role. Carole? This one sends a trail of goose bumps up your skin because Kurt did love Carole like his own mother and Burt like Marc Antony to Cleopatra—

But, no, it's not Carole, you can sense it. And suddenly Kurt is there and things click into place because you glance at your phone background—a picture of you and Finn captured by Artie in the middle of last year, smiling and happy. And then you look at Kurt, whose lips form the words "Finn … car crash … fatal" and NO IT CAN'T BE TRUE NO YOU JUST TALKED TO FINN, you yell. You tell Kurt that this isn't funny, tell Kurt that you're not laughing and that he should STOP IT RIGHT NOW SERIOUSLY KURT IT'S NOT FUNNY

IT'S NOT FUNNY IT'S NOT FUNNY IT'S NOT —

"Are you serious?" Santana is hissing, her tone one of stunned disbelief.

You want to scream and cry and shout to make herself heard but then you notice Kurt's eyes welling with unshed tears for one of his best friends—his brother—and even Santana has a lone tear trailing down. Burt's eyes are wet—he's not even bothering to wipe it anymore. And the whole world goes mute for you because you can't no no no he can't be dead and somehow your whispers are worse than the screams.

You had a plan. Both of you; it wasn't supposed to be like this. Your future included a house and kids and—

It takes you about two minutes to realize that Kurt is speaking—telling the whole story to you and Santana. A dry sob makes its way up your throat as you catch snatches from the conversation. Almost every word is intercepted by a sob or a sniffle.

"—he was driving up to New York with Puck to see us—and—and the car flipped over; they were rammed into by a drunk driver and—and he called me, Rachel." And Kurt's voice is speaking you now, frighteningly real. Your eyes are drawn to his and you can't look away—

A low, guttural sound, like a dying banshee, is heard around the rom. It takes you a full minute to realize that it's you that's screaming and Finn's that's dead and oh God you can't—

You dry heave again and let out another sob. Someone's arms—Santana's, you think—wrap around you from behind and you lean into their warm embrace. Santana puts her on your shoulder and you lie there for a moment and it's alright.

And then you remember than Finn is dead and it won't ever be alright again, not really. No words of comfort or amount of time will ever fix the hole in your heart; years may cause the hole to be bandaged but never again will you be yourself.

"I—I was such a bitch to him," Santana mutters into your shoulder, her breath hot. You feel your arms wrap around her too and this reminds you of your pregnancy scare—except this time there is no quick fix.

"He outed you in a crowded hallway, Santana, you have some right to be angry," Kurt adds from somewhere behind you. You want to rip out your ears or slash your fingers off with a knife. You've never actually thought about self-harm before, and you know you aren't thinking rationally now, but you feel numb beneath the tears and YOU WANT TO BLEED SO YOU FEEL SOMETHING—

Your phone rings—Don't tell me not to live; just sit and putter; life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter—and you know it's the people for Funny Girl and it's funny how just how twenty minutes ago this would have been the most important thing to you and now you don't care because Finn won't be there on opening night with a bouquet of assorted flowers and a kiss and it just hits you like a brick wall that you're never getting back together and you let out another wail, hoping to break down the walls with the sheer magnitude of your voice—

Santana's hand feels like a lifeline and you can hear Burt talking to the casting director. You make no attempt to turn around, no attempt to find out if you made it because Finn and—

(—he helped you pick out your audition song; he wished you good luck—he was your inspiration).

"Congratulations," Burt says, handing you the phone. "You're the understudy for Fanny." You can't even smile when Santana whispers "Congrats" and Kurt squeezes your shoulder because your first thought is I can't wait to tell Finn about this.

"He would be proud," Kurt says and it's so fucking sentimental that you want to cry but it comes out as a dry laugh instead and Kurt smiles back and for a moment the gaping hole in your heart isn't as big.

"I've booked a plane flight," Burt says after a heavy moment. "It's supposed to leave in a few hours and, well, we're just waiting for Quinn. Kurt called her an hour and a bit ago; she should be here soon. I was supposed to stay with Carole at—at the hospital but I couldn't have Kurt know by a phone call. Or you." He turns beseeching eyes onto you and you look away.

And then your phone flashes again because damn, you're popular today and it's Marley—I've got chills, they're multiplyin'; and I'm losing control, 'cause the power you're supplyin'—you throw your phone against the wall, hard, and it shatters into a million pieces. Now it can join the shattered pieces of your heart. Santana lets out a low whistle as she watches you and you can't even muster the energy to smile back—it's too late to stop the onslaught of memories of Finn's first glee practice and the electricity you felt—

There is a knock on the door and all four of you turn back towards it—you know, rationally, that Quinn is most likely at the door, but there's still the vain hope that Finn is there and this was all a joke. You breathe in when Burt opens the door, already expecting to see a tall and lanky figure. You can feel Kurt and Santana also still beside you.

Quinn Fabray, classy chic as always, stands at the doorway. Her eyes are full of worry, darkening the hazel to brown, and they flit over Burt, Kurt, linger for a moment on Santana and rest on you. You feel the need to get up, to hug her, to let her join in your grief. "Guys?" her voice is confused but worried because nothing makes Santana Lopez cry—ever.

And then Kurt is telling the story over again and this time you listen with tears running down your face. You feel the hole Finn has left in your heart get bigger and bigger with every passing second and you think that if Santana didn't have her arms linked around you, you probably would have jumped out of a window in a crazy fit.

As the five of you pile into Burt's car, the past few months and the ever-complicated relationship with Finn seems to flit through your mind. Finn. Brody. Choosing. We've Got Tonite. Another strangled cry escapes from your throat. Quinn's hands find yours in the backseat and squeezes and you thank her—and Santana, Kurt, and Burt—with your eyes because they are here.

::

The security guard glances at them, eyes widened in shock. You inwardly laugh and wonder what Finn would think of the sight of you guys—three teenage girls who look like they've just watched a marathon of Nicholas Sparks movies, a boy who looks like he forgot to press his famous Armani pants, and the disgruntled father who looks like he's forgotten what a good night's sleep was like. You almost say this out loud to Finn but then it hits you again that he's not there and he never will be again.

The thought is so sobering that you have to run to the nearest garbage can and puke.

The guards are lenient on you—as lenient as can be in a New York City airport—and you get on the flight with minutes to spare. You end up nearest to the window with Quinn on your left. Santana and the Hummels are across the aisle. You barely pay attention as the plane takes off—as people talk and chat like it's an ordinary day but it's not. They're all robots and you—Quinn, Santana, the Hummels, and yourself—are the only sane ones left.

"I got the role as understudy for Fanny," you say emotionlessly once the plane is in the air and you can no longer see the tall skyscrapers of New York. You remember the first—and only—time you came here with Finn; it was supposed to be the start of a tradition. Quinn arches a blonde eyebrow.

"Congratulations! I always knew you'd get a role, Rachel, it's your destiny," Quinn says, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and smiling a soft smile. You smile back but it feels wrong somehow—like smiling while Finn's in a body bag is a sin—and you let it slide off your face.

You and Quinn chat idly—nothing too serious, nothing relating to glee, musicals, glee, football, or glee. You soon realize how little there is to talk about that doesn't involve Finn in some way. You don't know if your mind is trying to ruin everything for you, but Quinn will start off with an innocent story like "I remember the summer I turned twelve was the summer my sister Fanny got to go see her first concert—the All-American Rejects." And then you remember the time you sang Gives You Hell to him and then the tears start again and there's no way to stop—

"I talked to Shelby," Quinn blurts out as a last conversation topic. Shelby is a sore subject for the both of you and you admire her for bringing it up. It also happens to be one of the Finn-free subjects in your life.

"I did, too," you admit and then you explain the story about her helping you with your auditions. She smiles at that, and it's pretty, Quinn's smile. Then it strikes you that it's an odd thought that things can still be pretty when Finn's dead. Is there still beauty, really? You look down to catch your last glimpse of New York.

"Isn't it weird," you start after another awkward quarter hour of silence. "That after—after someone d—d—dies," you say the last word with a sob that wracks through your body, "things are, more or less, the same?"

"Hmm?"

"Like—" you feel the need to explain yourself, "—think about it; there are billions of people in this world that believe today is a normal day. The sky is still blue, water is still wet, the sun still rises. Nothing has actually changed," you hear Santana groan from the seat across the aisle and mutter something about "Know-it-all Berry" but you roll your eyes. "Nothing except the way we see things."

Quinn nods slowly. She doesn't add anything to the conversation—I think you've covered all the basic angles—and you sit in companionable silence for another few minutes.

"Isn't it weird?" Quinn asks, her voice low and eyes focused on the small screen in front of her that says they'll be arriving in twenty minutes.

"What?" you stare at her. She's pretty, even in mourning. A kind of pretty you'll never be—the kind of pretty that always gets the guy; except this time, you think. You can't help but compare her to the original Quinn the cheerleader you met. Her nose is still perfect and eyebrows shapely, her hair is still honey blonde but it's the eyes that have changed. Her hazel eyes are softer—the emotion under them is real.

"That Finn—the guy that drove us apart—is also the guy that brought us closer together," and then she pauses, an imperceptible look in her eyes, before adding, "As friends."

"Yeah, sorry about trying to steal your boyfriend, by the way," you apologize. You smile—the second real one in an hour—and wink; both of you know you're not sorry because you're Rachel Berry but Quinn laughs.

"Thank you, actually. That helped me discover who I really was and not who I thought I should have been for others." Quinn's eyes soften. "You're kind of my best friend, you know—aside from Britt and San and Mercedes, of course. Imagine going up to sophomore year Q and saying that Rachel Berry would be her best friend within three years and would also date your boyfriend"—here your eyes start to tear up and you've really got to stop crying and make yourself presentable"—can you imagine my reaction?"

And you smile at her and she smiles back because talking like this, remembering the old days with Finn, doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would. She takes another deep, shuddering breath. "H—have you spoken to Carole?" you ask; you know that she can't be doing too well considering Burt's left her on her own for most of the day to get them, and your heart goes out for this woman who's survived her husband's death and so much more—

How can she survive another tragedy?

::

The hospital waiting room is full of New Directions (or, really, Old Directions) and the Newer Directions. Mr. Shue is pacing back and forth and you probably couldn't have recognized him if it hadn't been for his sweater vests. (Seriously, did he even own another article of clothing?) Burt and Kurt rush off to the receptionist as soon as they get there and some of the New Direction members pull you, Quinn, and Santana into their clothes, holding you and saying I'm so sorry, Rachel because they knew that he was your star and you were his.

You end up in a seat beside Mercedes, who's squeezing your arm, and Blaine, who gets up every minute to pace back and forth, worried about Kurt. "Hi, girl," Mercedes says. You smile at her, too drained to say anything. You can't believe that Mercedes is here from LA but then you look around and notice that Mike is here from Chicago, talking quietly to Tina and Artie in the corner and Brittany is here from MIT (you don't even know….), sitting with Santana, pinkies linked. "We're here for you, girl, okay? All of us."

She gestures to everyone—the newbies, seniors, and graduates—and you smile a little because you can say a lot about Finn Hudson but you can't say he wasn't loved. Mr. Shue walks up with you, hands alternating positions from pockets to behind his back.

He looks like a lonely puppy that just lost his best friend; he more than likely had, you muse as he gazes at you with a sad, lingering expression. "Rachel. Rachel, I—" But you don't want any more apologies; don't want any more empty words and promises. You realize you don't need someone to fill up the silence with empty words like he's in a better place or God called him home; now you finally understand how Kurt felt when Burt had the heart attack—you don't need explanations or answers, you need people to be there.

"I know, Mr. Shue," you say instead. You force your lips upwards into a show smile and it feels like carving through cement. And as you glance across the room, at everyone's disheartened faces, you know that you have to get out of here before you finally lose it.

"I'm going to get something to eat," you say. Santana and Mercedes look like they want to follow you, like if they let you out of their site for one minute you'll end up like Finn (oh, God—even thinking his name hurts now), but you shake your head; you just need some room to breathe.

You're out of the room and down the hall before you notice the footsteps following you. You turn, annoyed, ready to have a total diva meltdown. "I'm sorry, Rachel—I know that you want to be alone and I completely understand, but—I need to get away, too." She pauses, as if she's waiting for your permission to keep walking. Almost imperceptibly, you nod.

You appraise the girl walking beside you—just like a runner scoping out the competition and even though you're not at a competition singing is in your veins—as you two walk beside each other. You know, from a few angry rants via Skype from Tina, that this girl—her name currently eludes you, Mary? Marsha?—was considered to be the new Rachel.

"You know," she says, "They say I remind them of you. Minus the diva part, I guess." You almost crack a smile. "Finn—he always used to"—and here you turn around and you feel your hair crackling with electricity because she can't just mention his name like he's still there—"say that you were irreplaceable. Thing was, so was he." You keep walking; Megan's fallen behind, you don't know whether or not you're running from her.

"He told me about you," you finally respond when you're half a hallway ahead of her. It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would—of course, it still burns that aching hole into your heart—and you stop to take another deep breath because it's still so fresh in your mind. Just yesterday, he was alive and breathing and here and now—

"He did?" It's finally Miley that prompts you to continue.

"He—he said that you were the one that told him that he should become a teacher," you don't even pretend it's not killing you anymore, and before you know it you're sliding down the wall and on the floor, head in your hands. "Thank you, Marley." Ah, that's what her name was. You thought you could do it but you can only think of Finn in short, painful gasps and—

"He helped me with my bulimia," Marley said, kneeling down to face you.

Part of you thinks that you should stand up and walk on with a show smile because you're Rachel Berry. Except this isn't an ordinary death—this is Finn Hudson and you don't know how you'll ever recover.

"I loved him so much," you find yourself saying. "I loved him; we may have fought, we may have hurt each other but I was his. He was mine. Now—" Your breath is coming in short gasps and you're vaguely aware of Marley saying something because you're thinking of the first time Finn kissed you and the first time he told you he loved you and the first time you had sex and you love him so much and maybe love isn't strong enough to overcome death—

And then the world is spinning in circles around you and Marley is screaming into her cell phone and you can't do this; you thought you could but you can't—

"I love you," you gasp out, "I love you so much, Finn." The words feel foreign on your tongue—after all, you haven't said in months, and you're waiting for his returning Love you, too, Rach but the words never come because Finn is dead and he's not coming back.

Somehow, that hurts more than anything else.

::

The walk to Finn's room feels like the never-ending walk to death—well, it is because once you see the body there's no denial—and the only thing keeping you grounded is Mercedes' hand on your back. You breathe in, breathe out—pretend you're not falling apart. "I'm here, baby," Mercedes says over and over again. "You're not going through this alone." You nod and hope you never reach the white door at the end of the hall but, of course, you reach it less than half a minute after that thought.

Carole and Burt are outside, Carole's eyes impossibly red-rimmed. "Rachel," she says and you two fall into each other's arms. There isn't anything that needs to be said—the arms and tears are enough—but you're there and that's what's important. "He loved you," Carole says when she finally pulls away from your grasp.

"He loves me," you correct because you know that he's somewhere out there, in the universe, and he loves you and that's what's keeping you upright. She glances at you and you glance at her and all the pain you feel is magnified in her eyes. You move to Burt who (although he isn't that much of a hugger) wraps his arms around you. His embrace is warm and you suddenly ache to see your fathers.

Behind you, you can hear Mercedes muttering something in Carole's ear before giving Burt a quick squeeze. You don't ask where Kurt is. Instead, your hand reaches for the doorknob and your hand automatically twists it even as your brain and your feet want to turn and run as fast as they can.

There's a sharp intake of breathe when you both enter the room, and you don't know if it's from you or Mercedes. All that matters is that it's not from the boy on the bed—the first and only boy you've ever fully given your heart to—because his heart is cold and dead and silent and you'll never listen to its soft beatings when your head is pressed up against his chest.

You approach the bed with a new courage and look at the face of the boy you love. The body, you notice, is his but it looks more like a mannequin than an actual person. You reach your hand out to grasp his and you recoil at how cold and hard it is. But then you break into hysterics because this is the last time you'll ever hold your boyfriend's hand and you're not even nineteen and it wasn't supposed to be like this—

You had dreams. You had a future. After your Grammy-Emmy-Oscar-Tony combo, you'd retire to a nice suburb with Finn and have two kids and a pet dog. You'd play old Broadway show tunes and he'd buy the most wretched truck out there and turn it into a family vehicle. There would be vacations and kisses and renewing vows and so much more—

Strangled screams are being emitted from your throat but you can't seem to stop. You stare at the face—an empty shell—devoid of all emotion and you want to scream some more. This isn't Finn, not really, this is just a doll IT'S NOT FINN IT'S NOT FINN WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH FINN, you yell. Mercedes puts a calming hand on your back and you take a deep breath.

You can do this.

"I love you, Finn. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone in my life; this includes my collection of signed Broadway CDs. I love you so much, Finn, and I just wish I had ten more minutes just to hold your hand, just to kiss you goodbye." Strangely, you're quite calm for the final goodbye. There is no screaming, only your show face. "God, Finn. I'm going to miss you so much—we all will, even Santana. I'm going to miss your horrible dancing and I'll probably cry every time I hear the song Faithfully. I'll look twice every time I see an extraordinarily tall guy walk by and I'll pray on my star every night. I guess I have two of them, now, right?" Tears are slowly making their way down your face—it's not like it was before, all anger and pain and sadness, but just grief. He's in the room, you know it. "And I love every one of them. Thank you for helping me follow my dreams, Finn. I love you. Goodbye, okay?" And you grabs his hand one last time and squeezes. For an instant, you can pretend he squeezes back and there is light in his eyes. "And by the way, I got the role as understudy. Thank you." Your voice catches and it feels like a frog has leapt its way into your throat.

"I'll see you in the waiting room, okay, Cedes?" you say, suddenly all drained. You walk out of the room without another glance. Part of you wants to run back and memorize every contour of his face, his eyelids, his lips, but the larger part wants you to remember him as he was when he was alive—when his hands would hold her and his heart would beat; that was the Finn you want to carry with you.

You run all the way back to the waiting room, almost like you're racing time itself, and nod at the next two—Puck and Mike—Puck gives you an imperceptible look as he passes, and your hand reaches out to grab his. He squeezes for a moment and lets go slowly, until your fingertips are touching. Kurt is back here now, on the phone—with Adam, you guess since Blaine's glaring at the phone—and you wait for him to finish.

"Rachel." He leans in to hug you and you realize that his brother is dead. It hits you like an epiphany—not only did you lose a boyfriend, but Burt and Carole lost a (step-)son and Kurt a step-brother. You realize that if there was ever a time to stop being selfish for one moment, it would be here with Kurt.

You haven't always been the best friend to Kurt but right now, your grief binds you in a way NYADA and glee club never would; you both share a common first crush, a common friend, and a common love (although his love isn't the same as yours) in Finn.

"Kurt," you say, the words are almost unintelligible due to the tears, "Kurt." Your eyes convey what your lips cannot—"He loved you, you know?" you add in a low voice.

Kurt turns to smile at you, one that almost looks like his usual smile. "I know—I loved him, too."

And then you're both crying and in each other's arms and both wondering WHY FINN because the universe isn't fair.

::

Quinn sleeps over. You feebly protest—are you sure, Quinn, your mom will miss you?—but your arms never let go of hers and she doesn't even respond as she helps you out of Santana's escalade (Lima Heights Adjacent, yeah right…). She holds onto your arm until you're at the door and then she rings the doorbell. The noise is far too loud compared to the deathly quiet of the hospital. You think you stop breathing when your dads open the door, teary eyed and worried.

"Hello, Quinn," your daddy mumbles, "Hi, Goldstar." Dad is still at the hospital—his surgery is running a bit late, daddy explains. You kiss his cheek and for a moment it's just like its last year and Quinn's come over to study for a bit and Finn will come over for a make out session in an hour. You almost throw up when you realize this can never be.

Going into your room will be painful—you and Quinn both know, judging by the amount of time you spend downstairs, stalling. After you drink your third cup of soymilk and Quinn goes to the bathroom again, you exchange a glance. "We can sleep downstairs," Quinn offers half-heartedly. You shake your head and you're suddenly so glad that she's with you and you don't have to do this on your own.

She opens the door and your eyes immediately begin to water. The hole in your chest begins to throb—the way you want him, need him, desire him—and you think you just can't because there's the photo of you two during the Regionals he told you he loved you and there's one of you two last Valentine's day and—

You spin around and the air smells like Finn. You gulp the air in greedily. Quinn hovers on the fringes, not quite sure what to do. Hell, you're not sure what to do. And suddenly you're angry. Okay, so maybe this anger is not so sudden—maybe it's been building up since the phone call with Kurt because WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE FINN, you yell. In a perfect diva rage, you rip down your pictures of you and Finn—ones that have spammed throughout your three year relationship. You're singing and crying what sounds like a horrible mash-up of "You're the One that I Want" and "Faithfully" and you're remembering and—

You stop midway through tearing down one of the bulletins above your desk. Christmas 2011, the piece of paper states. The messy scrawl is unmistakable—Finn—and you don't know whether you're going to laugh or cry or vomit. Perhaps all three, you think. You wonder if it was always here, or if some divine power had brought it here. Quinn lays a hand on your arm.

You open the note.

R—

I may not show it as well or as often as you'd like so here it is—I love you. I love you so much that sometimes I don't know what to do with myself; you're what my earth revolves around, not the sun.

I'll always love you to the ends of the earth because you're not just any star—you're my star are you're one of a kind. I feel like the luckiest guy on earth because you chose to be with me; not Puck or Jesse or anyone, and that means something. We mean something.

—F

Hot tears are dripping down your nose by the end of the note. He'd probably scrawled this in five minutes, ten tops and yet here you are, crying like you have discovered an ancient artifact. For the first time, to finally allow yourself to cry for Finn—not the football player, not the glee club co-captain—but the guy who had two left feet but could play the drums like nobody's business; the guy who could be very oblivious but also the sweetest person on earth; the only person who had ever completely possessed your heart and the sole reason for its gaping hole.

Quinn's arm on yours returns you to earth gradually and she lets you cry. She doesn't pull you into her arms and whisper lies. Instead of being the rock, she is your anchor. "He loves you, Rachel. So much. He bought you a star, right? Now you'll always have him wherever—" You don't let her finish her sentence before you are down the stairs and outside on the front lawn; Quinn follows a few moments later with the telescope.

You and Quinn stay outside for an hour, looking for your star—his star. You finally go quiet when you spot it; you don't know why you think this is it, after all, there are tons of other stars in the galaxy, but all of a sudden your breath catches in your throat and you just know.

Quinn goes silent as you look at Finn. You want to scream, laugh, cry—so you settle for what you do best: sing. For perhaps the first time in your life, you are not singing for an audience. You are singing for yourself and him and your happily-ever-after that was not meant to be.

You don't even start of meaning to pick a particular song, but one just appears at the forefront of your mind and it's perfect—Faithfully.

You'll never be okay again. It's ridiculous, even for you, to think that a song and a star will fix the Finn sized hole in your heart. Except, as you sing "I'm still yours, I'm forever yours, ever yours,…faithfully," the hole gets a little bit smaller and you know that somewhere in the galaxy, he can hear you.

fin.


End file.
